Marrs Attacks

Alison ‘The Hun’ isn’t that bad. In the post this morning there was a cornucopia of stationery with ‘Marrs Temps’ plastered all over it: mouse mat, ruler, rubber, pens and a stress ball.

It will help me resist the stationery catalogue for a bit.

I was disappointed that there was no Marrs Hole Punch. Fag Ash Lil was impressed with the bounty when Brenda flounced in from lunchtime shopping. She delved into her Pravda bag (where did she get that in Wigan?). “I saw this and I thought of you.”

She handed Lil a leaflet with “Smoking Cessation Class” advertised in big letters. ‘Cessation’ is a new word for ‘pack it in’.

Luckily, I managed to catch the stress ball before it hit the back of her head as she walked away.

They’ve got my number

I’ve been completely erased from the system, so they have created a whole new identity for me. The PC’s in Wigan have more security than Harrods on “Scouse Shopping Day” and the virus checker is so thorough it can find bird flu at fifty paces.

The change to my numbers and passwords as thrown me into an identity crisis, so at lunch time I forgot my PIN number. The woman at Marks and Sparks asked me to put in my number and I drew a blank.

“Sorry cock. It’s chip and pin or nothing.” The M&S grinned.

All those years at school, learning how to spell my name, come to nothing.

I had to put the celery banquet back on the shelf.

Its Behind You

Karen, one of the temps on my team, has been protesting about where she is sitting all day.

“I’m too near to that plant. There are flies. I don’t like flies.” She explained.

“I’ll get you a swatter,” I said (luckily The Catalogue that Cannot Be Named (for keeping my job reasons) has got one in stock.)

“There’s a draught from the air conditioning.” She said.

“I’ll turn it off”

“I don’t like having my back to the room. I don’t like people coming from behind.” She moaned.

“I’ll get you a rear view mirror.”

“I think that this chair needs adjusting.”

I think she needs a mallet.

Zombie Flesh Eaters From Marrs

“Have they all arrived Hun?” Alison ‘The Hun’ from the Marrs Job Agency, was keen to know whether the temps had managed to shuffle their way in.

“Yes they are all present and correct.” I said, trying to match her cheerfulness.

“Do you need more chick? I can get them for tomorrow!” She is relentless.

I looked up at the congregated crew clustered around the ‘glug, glug, glug’ water machine.

One of them dribbled.

I hope I get upgraded to real people soon.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow fonder…

There is a friendly face in Wigan. Fag Ash Lil has transferred over the Summer.

She hates the place and has been huffing and puffing, more than usual, at my desk today.

“They are turning the smoke room into a ‘contemplation room’ so people can pray. It’s political correctness gone mad. What about my rights? Don’t they realise that they are making me smoke MORE because they are all trying to stop me? If they let me smoke at my desk, I wouldn’t fret so much and I’d probably give up.” She fumed.

I suggested she put shine to Benson and Hedges in the contemplation room.

I got a passive glare.

Go Away

Day6 and I already have an annoying person on my Wankerdaq profile. Not bad going.

To break me in gently, Brenda won’t let me have a team of real people, I’ve got to have temps instead and she has allotted a new batch of ten from the Marrs temp agency.

Alison from the temp agency has been ringing me all day. She is depressingly happy all the time and insists that I’m a “honey’, “chick’ or “babe”.

“Hun, I can get you five guys for next Monday, how does that sound chick?” said in a tone you could call ‘bubbly’.

“Er… I don’t know.” I said.

I’m a team manager; she mistakes me for someone who can make decisions.

Secondment to none

One week in and it feels like I've never been away. I keep getting those "they never get away" looks. Barney, the Big Gay Bear, keeps calling me from Bolton demanding a refund of his 'whip round' money from when I left.

People are curious... The girl with Kaleidoscope eyes keeps asking me about it.

"I've been on a sabbatical," I keep saying, not really knowing what one is, hoping she'd go away.

"Did you go travelling?"

Does a weekend in Morecambe count?

She continued, "I had a 'gap year'."

"Really?," I replied, "what did you do?"

"Worked in Gap and took too many drugs."

Now, why didn't I think of that?

Wigagain

Brenda, the former under-boss, has been bumped up a few stripes.

Part of the conditions of my return was that I had to go from Bolton to Wigan. If it isn’t bad enough that I have to come back, I have to fit in with Brenda’s new World Order she has developed in the Wigan office.

Brenda has grown from a tuna-and-onion-breathing to fire-breathing dragon. She is half way between Thatcher and Evita played by Janet Street Porter.

I think she is avoiding me. Occasionally, she’ll flounce past saying “busy, busy, busy,” or she lurks behind a plant and says, “I’ll catch you for a latte and lunch. Honk! Honk!”

Three days on and I feel like I we’ve crashed landed and I’m trapped in a strange place with a beast lurking, making strange noises in the undergrowth.

Its like LOST. With ugly people.

Re-Programming

This is a new start and a chance to reinvent myself. People have a short memory and my incompetence will be all but forgotten. I’ve set some golden rules for my new image:

1) I’ll cut down my Post-it consumption.
2) I’ll only order the stationery I need (see 1 above)
3) I’ll look at the BBC website no more than once a day. I don’t even like cricket.
4) I’ll prepare for my appraisal and avoid self-destruction.
5) I’ll investigate more about the life of Jodie Marsh, her work has passed me by, Big Brother is leading me to cultural enlightenment.
6) I’ll cut out chips and beans and eat seeds instead.
7) I’m not going to waste my summer on Big Brother.
8) I will no longer have the wool pulled over my eyes. I will consult the Family Medical Encyclopaedia when staff phone in sick. How was I supposed to know that parvo was a dog disease?

I quite like the new me.

Bak to the Jug Agen

Whoever said, “lightening doesn’t strike twice” had never heard of herpes, Mick Hucknall and call centres.

I’m back, in the words of Gary Barlow, for good. While I'm at it I'll be whistle-blowing like Roger Whittaker with a pair of bellows up his arse

In the month that the Dutch have finally admitted that working in a call centre is not the fulfilling job that we were promised, by opening one in a prison, it is fitting that I come back.

I left seeking fame and fortune. I discovered that the streets maybe lined with gold, but they are also dotted with dog muck in neat piles. Some people have a calling for greatness; I’m clearly destined to work in call centres.

It is my destiny. I only hope that I’m up to the task.